


Swagger

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:05:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-7.20 victory lap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swagger

Dean swaggers. Charlie watches the trim shape of her, the firm curves and strong lines of her body under her worn jeans and t-shirt, as she crosses the motel room: the easy intent of her gait, the slight sway of her hips, the gleam in her eyes and faintly lecherous curve of her plush, perfect mouth.

Swagger.

It's in Dean's voice, too, as she climbs up onto the bed, denting the hideous paisley comforter under Charlie's knees with her own. "So," she says, low and amused and a little drawn out, "am I ever gonna get to see that tattoo of yours?"

The air between them smells like bourbon. Charlie's been drinking it in lieu of taking the pain pills they gave her at the ER--she'd rather not get quite that doped out until Dick Roman is smaller than a microdot in the rearview, thank you very much--and Dean's been unwinding by matching her drink for drink. They haven't even had that much, really; about half a bottle between them, maybe. It's just that, after the last day and a half, Charlie thinks they both went into the whole alcohol thing at least a little bit pre-looped.

So anyway, the air between them smells like bourbon. And as Dean leans in closer, Charlie gets a breath of other scents, borax and coffee and clay and sweat, and somehow, on Dean, the whole mixture of generally un-erotic aromas turns her on like nobody's business. Swagger, she thinks again, and it sparks her competitive streak, making her bold. "Princess Leia and a twenty-sided die," she reminds her, looking squarely into Dean's eyes, and likes the way Dean's pupils dilate at the sound of her voice, which--via alcohol and the day's accumulation of stress--is already in the sex register. "I didn't think that was really your kind of thing."

The curve of Dean's mouth draws slowly into a full, dirty smile, and warmth blooms thick and low in Charlie's belly. "All tattoos are sexy," is all Dean says, and holy fuck, talk about a sex register. Charlie wants to lick into her mouth just to taste that voice.

So she does.

Dean gives a little huff of surprise as Charlie surges up off the pillows, but kisses back with enthusiasm and deep sweeps of her tongue that make Charlie whimper. Reaching up with her good hand, Charlie threads her fingers into the soft waves of Dean's hair and tugs; Dean crawls more fully into her lap, straddling Charlie's hips and settling her weight and pushing in, warm and firm and--

\--then, abruptly, pulling back again. Charlie drags her eyes open and finds Dean sitting back on her thighs, watching her consideringly with high colour in her cheeks, messy hair, and god, _god_ , her _mouth_ , those full lips that had just been sucking on Charlie's tongue, parted and wet.

Dean arches an eyebrow at the sound of protest Charlie makes; then, lightly, almost a tease, she trails one hand along the line of the sling immobilising Charlie's arm against her chest. "Watch the injury, princess."

Charlie groans and lets her head fall back against the headboard with a thunk.

Dean chuckles, and they spend the next few minutes easing Charlie out of her t-shirt with maddening slowness and an almost total lack of sexiness. _Almost_ total; the plus side is in how Dean's hands--her warm palms and strong, tapered fingers--are still all over Charlie. The way they hold and manoeuvre Charlie's arm with practised confidence and easy care, like Dean's had long experience with the necessity of touching people in pain, and knows how to do it in ways that won't hurt more. That part doesn't suck.

And when Charlie's t-shirt is on the floor, Dean leans right back in, ducking her head to mouth along the line of Charlie's bra and press the hot, wet flat of her tongue to Charlie's nipple through the fabric, and Charlie finds it suddenly incredibly difficult to regret the delay--or the renewed, slight ache in her elbow--at all.

It doesn't take them long to strip off the rest of their clothes. Dean laughs delightedly when, tugging Charlie's jeans down her thighs, she uncovers her tattoo; she skims one fingertip over it--over Leia, adding a second fingertip to follow the splay of her legs--and gives Charlie a glittering, half-lidded look. "She looks good on you," Dean says, all sultry and suggestive, and then Charlie's laughing, too.

"Oh my god, Dean," she says, giggling. "That's an awful line."

Dean looks affronted. "My lines are awesome."

"It's not like you needed it, anyway." Charlie tilts her hips up, just a little, pointedly. "You've already got me naked."

Dean sulks for maybe half a second more before that sinful mouth curves into another smile and she reaches for the hem of her own t-shirt.

Dean, it turns out, also has some ink: a round, black, spiky thing above her left breast that Charlie looks at for all of two seconds before she's completely distracted by the rest of Dean's skin, freaking endless stretches of it, lightly tanned and scattered with freckles. Charlie runs her good hand from the flare of Dean's hip up to the curve of her breasts and curses her injured arm, wanting to have both hands to do this, wanting to _touch_ \--and it's like Dean reads her mind, because all at once she's reseating herself in Charlie's lap, pressing in with all that golden skin and starting a slow, rolling grind of her hips that Charlie picks up eagerly.

And oh, it's good, rubbing themselves off on each other, tonguing into each others' mouths, hands stroking and clutching and roaming. But then Dean's pulling back again, and then Dean's sliding down the bed, and then Charlie's making some truly embarrassing noises because Dean's mouthing up the inside of her thigh. She lingers over the tattoo with what feels suspiciously like a smirk, then presses in, finally, presses those full lips to Charlie's cunt and licks at her hungrily.

"Oh _fuck_ me--" Charlie blurts, her hand going to Dean's head and clenching in her hair, her hips jerking up. Dean just hums as Charlie rides her mouth; then, after a moment, obliges her request, sliding two long fingers inside her, then a third, fucking Charlie with her hand while tonguing and sucking at her clit.

Charlie arches up off the bed as she comes, but Dean's mouth doesn't stop moving on her, works her through the first orgasm and right into a hard, shuddering second.

When Charlie falls bonelessly back onto the pillows, Dean raises her head and smiles, lips slick and red and obscene. Charlie pulls her up by the hair until she can taste herself in that beautiful, filthy mouth.

After a few seconds, though, Dean breaks the kiss. "Sorry, darlin'," she says breathlessly, "but I need--" And she slings one leg over Charlie's thigh and starts rocking urgently against her, smearing herself messily all over her skin.

"Excuse me," Charlie says, indignant. To Dean's credit, her tone makes her stop, despite the look of anguish that fixes on her face. "I'm not totally useless, you know," Charlie continues, and skims her good hand down Dean's back, around the curve of her hip, and into the wet heat between her legs.

Dean gives her a look caught somewhere between amusement, exasperation, and desperation; then she's moving again, rubbing herself off between Charlie's hand and her thigh, body strung taut with how much she wants to come. She looks gorgeous, feels incredible, and makes a sound when she finishes that Charlie files away in her memory for later.

After, Dean sprawls out beside her, flushed and sweaty and relaxed. "Hey," she says eventually, "you did good today." At the extremely arched eyebrow this earns, she chuckles. "With, you know. Dick."

Charlie snorts. "Yeah, I know. Don't think I'm gonna make that a habit, though."

"Still." Dean draws circles on Charlie's stomach with her fingertips, watches the gooseflesh that rises. "Sam and I, we appreciate it."

"You're welcome," Charlie says, and means it. Then she adds, "I'm serious, though, don't call me for Leviathan crap again, because--"

Dean leans over and kisses her to shut her up. Swagger again, Charlie thinks, and enjoys it.


End file.
